ruined books and magazines, forgotten sleeping bags, rotten shoes, melted candles and broken kerosene or oil lamps, cracked mirrors, sheets of corrugated tin, busted light bulbs, and old shelves and cupboards; All kinds of stuff, mostly garbage.
Some items were hidden in desolate corners, but most were out in the open. All you needed was a flashlight to see them.
I smelled fine metal dust and dirt, and diesel fumes, and mold and mildew, and God only knows what else. I walked on rocks and bricks and thick muck. I felt rain pour down sidewalk and street grates, and dainty flakes of snow, and icicles dripping from the same.
I never saw a window or ventilation shaft.
Simply put, those who lived under the city of New York lived in a lost world. They were poor because they had failed, and their failure caused them embarrassment. They hated to glance in shop windows because the glass acted like a mirror, and they hated to see their reflections. They felt as if they belonged underground.
Some tunnel dwellers shunned homeless shelters because they were afraid they'd be beaten or robbed or raped. Their experiences convinced them that shelters were dangerous, that they could be killed in them faster than on the streets. Some refused to go to shelters because shelters have rules, and they're convinced rules are stupid, that rules don't conform to reality.
Some people lived underground to escape thieves, thugs, and common cruelty. Some went down to escape the law, or to use drugs and alcohol without being hassled. Some families went into the tunnels to avoid giving up their children to foster homes, or they lived in the tunnels so they didn't have to pay rent or other bills like electricity and water.
I suppose, in many ways, mole people are just like you and me, but so are priests, thieves, child molesters, rapists, kidnappers, and serial killers.
At first the dark played havoc with my brain. It was easy to feel disoriented by the lack of light. Not only did I see things that weren't there, but I heard the magnification of sounds that echoed in the tunnel. I lost track of time. My imagination went berserk, running amok, and I had visions and delusions, probably a few flashbacks, and I felt as if people were watching me from the dark shadows. Later I learned that feeling wasn't my imagination because sometimes I was being watched.
I became wary of people I met because I never knew who I'd run into, a predator or a hard-core criminal, a fugitive or someone bordering on the insane. I met a lot of veterans. There were all kinds of homeless, or as Anzo says, houseless: men who hid, vagabonds and forgotten men, drifters, derelicts and vagrants, bums and beggars. But most of the folks who lived underground didn't want trouble. They went underground to avoid it.
Sometimes I worked. I found odd jobs such as sweeping storefronts. I spritzed water on car windows for a while, but once I cleaned a car window and found myself staring into the eyes of a former colleague. I don't know if he recognized me, but that was the day I quit washing car windows.
I hate to admit it, but when I was really hard up I begged. And one time, I told a store owner I'd lost money in his soda machine, so he'd give me a few coins.
I searched dumpsters, collecting bottles and cans to redeem for cash.
But I never picked pockets. I never took advantage of tourists in Times Square. I never did that. Though I know folks who did.
Eventually, I got used to living in the dark.
It didn't take long.
The privacy gave me a sense of security. In a way it was a kind of spiritual rebirth.
And I found I liked it.
I felt safe in the dark.
I went through drug withdrawal in the dark.
I created a home in the dark.
I faced my nightmares and became stronger in the dark.
In the dark, I cried for Kenny. In the shadows of darkness, I cried for my wife Victoria.
And I accepted my place in this world.
It was a simple life, sometimes just me and Anzo, sometimes other, but it felt good.
During the day, I went topside, showering every day at the Y.M.C.A. Sometimes I visited soup kitchens and I spent time at the park. Anzo and I worked hard to find firewood and other things we could burn for warmth, and we had to lug in water if we wanted to wash or have something to drink. In the summer, we got water from the fountains in the park. In the winter, we lugged it in, hard work, but worth it.
It was a good life with no worries.
I found peace.
Until I met those boys: Puck and Leroy.
I'd seen them before, walking past the soup kitchen, playing in the park. They seemed happy and carefree.
When I saw them, I thought about Kenny.
The first time I saw Puck, a little squirt with a wash of freckles across his cheeks, he reminded me of an abandoned kitten, skittish, but friendly, weary and starved for love. He might have been small, but he was quick and agile, and it was easy to get him to smile. He had the laugh of an angel.
Leroy was cautious, more confident than Puck, but equally friendly. Leroy was bigger and had more confidence, but he frightened easily.
I could see Puck was, by far, the more adventuresome of the two. Puck had gumption, pure and simple gumption.
I knew those boys watched me. They probably thought I was a bum. I suppose I was. They'd stare at me and whisper. They reminded me of Kenny. Boys always reminded me of Kenny.
By the time I met Puck, the pain from Kenny's death had diminished and the memories didn't sting as much. A part of me wanted to talk to those boys, get to know them a little, to touch a bit of the innocence Kenny would have had. Another part of me wanted to run and hide.
When Puck and Leroy followed me into the tunnel, I knew they were made from stronger stuff than my boy. Kenny was softer than those two. Some might have said Kenny was too full of the middle-class.
Anzo and I had a good chuckle when Puck and Leroy snooped around the tunnel. We were fairly sure they wouldn't be back. We didn't scare them intentionally, but since Anzo's size can put the fear of God into a grown man, we could only imagine what it did to those boys.
When I found Puck at the bus station, I'd been living in the tunnels for almost two years. I'd missed out on so much during those years: Margaret Thatcher's resignation, Desert Shield and Desert Storm, Nelson Mandella gaining his freedom after being jailed in a South African prison for twenty-seven years. I knew New York City had elected its first black mayor, but I couldn't have told you his name was David Dinkins. The Dow Jones hopped over the 3000 threshold. I even missed the premier of Jerry Seinfeld, a show that would one day become one of my favorite television shows. It would be years before I'd see that first episode.
Anyway, when I saw Puck sleeping in the bus station, images of Kenny exploded in my mind's eye. I suppose part of me became a father again. And I was reminded of how Anzo had taken me under his wing.
In any case, my heart broke when Puck told me he was houseless and homeless and that he didn't know how to find his family. I wanted to help him. I wanted to keep him safe. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and protect him from the wrath of society. There was no way I could have turned my back on him.
But as much as I would have loved to let Puck stay with me, to become some kind of father figure, I knew tunnels were not for children. I don't care if Anzo had moved into the tunnels when he was eleven. Life was more than living in the tunnels. Boys needed light to grow and become strong.
I remember how brave Puck tried to be, but his eyes were always filled with caution. I noticed the way he clenched his fists and chewed on his lip. All those things told me he was scared, and I assumed he'd taken fear to a level I'd never experienced.
I wanted so much to care for him. But I knew that was impossible.
It broke my heart to leave Puck at Children's Services and even though I knew it was the right thing to do, I felt I'd turned my back on him. I felt as if I had betrayed an innocent.
When Orlando guided me out of that office, I never looked back. If I had turned towards Puck, he would have seen me cr
ying. So I plodded down the street, tears streaming down my face, and I kept reminding myself that I was doing the right thing. I was doing the right thing, I was doing the right thing...
Puck needed light in his life. He needed to bask in the warmth of the sun and feel the soft breezes of the world. He needed these things for strength. He needed these things to become a man.
Puck didn't need to hide underground. He didn't need to be afraid of dark shadows and things he couldn't see. He deserved more. He had so many years ahead of him.
Puck did not need someone like me.
And then, as if God had slapped me in the face, I knew the same thing could be said for myself.
So after taking Puck to Children's Services, I kept walking. I never returned to those tunnels because I realized I needed light, too. I needed the warmth of the world. I needed to live.
I had twenty, thirty, maybe forty or more years left, and if I wanted to enjoy life, truly enjoy it, I needed to get out of the tunnels.
The world of light had possibilities. The world of light offered a chance.
So the morning I took Puck to Children's Services, I returned to the real world.
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